White linen suit
Frayed fingers in your making
Can you turn me into a poet
Can you take me to Bohemia
How many wages were spilt
Before being distilled
Made ready
Initiated
Into fashionable society
Arrogantly taken off the peg
The lost province of aristocracy
Past cities of the intellect
Retailer
Wholesaler
Packer
Shipper
Importer
Advertisement executive
And Mr Big
Anyone but you takes the money
For your intricate handiwork
Your lyric, your chorus
Your woven weft
Bereft of any of their cluster
Instead to the isthmus
Or the black hole
Of singular isolated pain
We may find
Only our own fortune
Which may or not sustain
Even for a short while
Until tea or a late supper
Eventually we must
All step out
Bled and undressed
In time for the better fed
Taken from the collection Words in Aspect South Facing - Available from Amazon for Kindle